Riddle of the Sphinx
by ClaraBecket
Summary: On hiatus, will be returning with MAJOR changes.
1. Chapter 1:  Twilight at the Museum

**_This is set roughly in the summer between Year Five and Year Six. It's more-or-less HBP-compatible, though since it's concurrent with the book's events, many things may change drastically... dun dun dun..._**

**_Oh, yes, and as the story opens, we find ourselves in London. This may be important._**

**Chapter One: Twilight at the Museum **

Dr. Clara Becket leaned over her desk, her brow furrowed in concentration as she gingerly swabbed the last of the perplexing muddy red-brown encrustation from the delicate decorative hieroglyphs etched into the surface of the bronze mask before her. "I certainly hope this stuff isn't what it looks like," she muttered to herself. "Otherwise dear old Anken-netjer must have met quite a messy end." Shaking her head, she nudged a likely-looking few flakes of the stuff into a sample vial, making a note to send it off for testing. "The public'll eat it up, of course..." She set the cotton swab aside, studying her handiwork for a moment. The bronze ceremonial mask of Anken-netjer, High Court Magician and Second Vizier to Pharaoh Ra-hotep III, said to have possessed the power to shield the wearer from any harm, glinted just a trifle too brightly in the flourescent light of the cluttered curatorial office. "Bloody rubbish, I say," Clara remarked, glancing again at the little vial of reddish stuff that looked suspiciously like ancient dried blood. "Didn't do old Anken a bit of good at the end, from the looks of it." The polished bronze features of the long-dead Second Vizier of Egypt, tattooed with carved hieroglyphs, looked up at her almost reproachfully.

She yawned, leaning back in her well-worn desk chair and stretching a bit, turning to look out the small window behind her. The sun was just beginning to drop over the London skyline; the docents should have chased the last of the late visitors out and gone home themselves by now, along with everyone but the cleaning staff and Becket. "Nowhere better to be anyway," she would reply when anyone asked why she stayed late at work more often than not, and the force of her glare usually deterred any further questions about her personal life, or lack thereof.

A clatter of falling objects from the storage room outside her office startled her out of her contemplation of the smog-shrouded sunset, and she hauled herself to her feet, supposing that an absentminded intern must have left the collections-room door open again. Putting on her sternest expression for chasing wayward members of the public out of her domain, she stalked out into the room which housed the British Museum's Egyptian collection not currently on display. "This area's off-limits to the public, I'm afraid, and we've closed anyway," she called out. "You'll have to--"

"A Muggle!" The voice behind the harsh whisper was female, and as the speaker turned toward her, she saw four or five other shadows turn as well, a couple of them nearly twice her own size. Becket had no idea what a Muggle was, but she felt a nagging suspicion that it probably didn't count as street slang for "someone I'd like to shake hands with and then leave in peace." She ducked back into her office, out of sight, and crouched behind her desk listening to the cadence of approaching footsteps and wondering what to do. The intruders had gotten themselves between her and the most effective recourse, the sizeable collection of military artifacts; Clara counted herself a fair hand with a sword, having been president of the fencing club back at Cambridge and the niece of a retired Foreign Legion Major, but only if she could reach one.

The door to her office literally exploded in a shower of splinters and brilliant green flame.

Blinded by the blast, Clara stumbled backwards, wondering dully if it could be terrorists. The hand thrust behind her to break her fall encountered cold metal, and she found herself holding the mask of Ankhen-netjer as she stumbled back against her desk. A tall, slender blond woman led the charge through the still-smoking doorway, the rather cold beauty of her features twisted into a snarl as she caught sight of Clara. Lunging forward, the woman lifted a hand– Clara had time to notice that she held a thin stick of some sort– and snapped "Crucio!"

Clara felt an odd tingling sensation pass over her, through her, and past. "Get out! I've called the police!" That last was a bluff, as she had had no time for telephoning anyone, but she supposed they could not be certain of that.

The blond woman took a step backward, staring at the stick in her hand as though it had just turned into a snake. "Crucio!" she snarled in a tone of unmistakable frustration, jabbing the stick at Clara again. The same tingling sensation swept around her and faded once more.

"Is... is this some sort of joke?" Clara regarded the woman with bemused skepticism. "Alice sent you, didn't she?"

"She's holding the mask, Narcissa, it won't work!" The man behind her shoved his way into the doorway, levelling another of those funny little sticks at her. Whatever the things were, the people holding them did not look particularly jocular about it, and Clara felt her fear returning. "Accio mas-"

Clara cut him off by hurling the heavy bronze mask at him, striking him a glancing blow on the left temple. He stumbled back, stunned, and the woman lunged for the mask now rolling on the floor at their feet. Clara dove to intercept; the woman was a head taller than herself, but with her willowy build, Clara easily shouldered her out of the way, snatching the mask and rolling to her feet with it to evade the blond woman's grasp.

"Foolssss. Five of you cannot deal with one ssscrawny hisssstorian... I should not sssssuffer ssuch bunglerss to sssserve me." The voice crawled with evil, and the words seemed to twine their way around her mind and squeeze remorselessly.

Clara whirled, inexplicably clutching the mask tightly to her chest, and found herself facing a swirling blackness which resolved itself into a figure shrouded in a voluminous black robe. The hood mercifully shadowed its face, but she caught a vague impression of something both more and less tha human. Fear flashed into anger, which melded into defiance. "I'm an archaeologist, actually. Who the hell are you?" She wasted no time trying to wrap her mind around why or how a man, or something that superficially resembled one, had simply appeared in the middle of her office, ostensibly from nowhere. Later, once she had finished not getting herself killed by a pack of lunatics, she could deal with little matters of reason.

"You have ssssomething I require, Dr. Becket." A skeletally thing hand lifted in a beckoning gesture, and the light of her office reflected with a greenish tinge from faint scales as a clawlike finger pointed to the mask. "The masssssk of Ankehn-netjer. And your sssservice, perhapsss, regarding ssssimilar itemsss."

"Have you tried a research request through the usual channels, pal?" She flung the sarcasm up before herself like a shield against the pressure in her mind.

"Insssolent dirt-for-blood Muggle! Your disssresspect will cosssst you your life."

"What'll you do, poke me to death with those funny sticks? Fake magicians' wands?"

The robed figure reached out a withered hand from one billowing sleeve, clutching a wand whose tip hovered mere inches from Clara's forehead. "Avada ked–"

"Oh, rubbish," Clara interrupted. Tucking the mask under one arm like an American football player, she swung the other hand in a right hook with all the force of her fear and outrage and sheer stubborn defiance behind it. Her fist connected with a sickening wet crunch, and the man's hood flew back to reveal eerily reptilian features made all the more monstrous by their last vestiges of humanity. Clara screamed, stumbling backward, her knuckles burning where the thing's steaming blood had splattered on them.

"Kill her!"

Several of the hooded monster's lackeys leaped for her, but voices rang out from behind them.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Petrificus totalis!"

"Stupefy!"

Two of the intruders seemed to fling their sticks– wands?– away, and another froze in place and then toppled over, holding the same pose, like an off-balance statue.

The next few moments passed in a blur of shouted Latin, cries of pain and fury, and flashes of light. Clara later recalled only a feeling of being cornered, and striking out at anything that came near enough to threaten her; occasionally she felt the strange tingle as the mask disarmed a spell flung her way; only afterward did she come to understand its protection of her in that confused battle. Years later, she still woke from vague nightmares of people in robes surrounding her, clutching at her, trying to snatch something from her hand or pin her arms to her sides, while she struck at them with her fists, battered them with the mask she held, and shouted her defiance.

When at last silence fell, she found herself in the middle of the wreckage of her office, her arms held back by two sets of hands as she struggled and kicked. As her senses returned to her in the sudden quiet, she realized they had made no attempt to take the mask, and a woman's voice, older and laced with the accent of the Highlands, murmured reassurances in her ear.

"It's all right, Dr. Becket. We're here to help you. We mean you no harm. You're going to have to stop trying to hit us, do you understand?"

Slowly, as the haze of battle faded, Clara nodded; part of her mind remembered her uncle's old Legion stories of battle-madness, and understood at last what he had described. "Let me go." She had been screaming the same thing for at least five minutes, kicking and biting—she would later learn, much to her relief, that lycanthropy is not transmitted by biting a werefolf—but now she spoke the words calmly, steadily, and felt the restraining grips fall away. Turning, she found herself facing a woman about her mother's age, who offered a tired smile and held out a hand.

"Dr. Becket. Professor Minerva McGonagall."

Clara reached out and took the woman's hand, and for a moment the two regarded one another silently.

Behind her, Clara heard a man's voice mutter, "Got away, all of 'em. Apparated. Was that...?"

"Yes, Remus," said an elderly man's voice, sounding weary down to his very soul. "Voldemort."

"Had a broken nose, for Merlin's sake! I wouldn't've thought a Muggle could put up that kind of fight and live to tell about it." Another woman's voice, full of approval, and when Clara turned toward the speaker, she saw a woman slightly younger than herself, who grinned broadly at her. "You're a tough one, Dr. Becket. Muggle or no, I bet we could use you."

"But it seems that this one certainly did live." Looking up at the man now approaching her, Clara realized she must simply be hallucinating, because the kindly-looking bearded fellow leaning down to peer at her looked remarkably like the wizard Gandalf from those Tolkien movies. "Are you all right, Doctor?"

Dr. Clara Becket of the British Museum simply fainted, still clutching the bronze mask of Ankhen-netjer.

_**AN: Yes, I know, the hisssssing Voldemort is unbearably corny. I shouldn't drink and write. **_

_**Next time: Mr. Weasley learns about microwaves. Snape and Clara get off on the wrong foot.** _


	2. Chapter 2: Worlds Collide

**_I'm not sure yet if the Order's Headquarters remains at Grimmauld Place or is elsewhere. In your head, it can be whereever you like for now._**

**Chapter Two: Worlds Collide**

Clara's first awareness was of a soft mattress beneath her and someone humming faintly as they straightened the blankets covering her. Wiggling a foot experimentally, she noted with some relief that her extremities seemed functional. She opened her eyes and found herself looking up at a plump middle-aged woman withs lightly disheveled red hair and a pleasant smile on her features.

"Oh, you're awake!" The smile widened, setting off a twinkle in her green eyes, and Clara decided immediately that she liked the woman. "How are you feeling?"

"Um." She tried to sit up, and her head suddenly swam, gray tinting the corners of her vision. "Dizzy. Where… where am I? The museum? The mask, is it…?"

"It's safe, dear." The woman patted her reassuringly on the shoulder. "And so are you. I'm Molly Weasley."

"Clara Becket. Where am I?"

The smile faded somewhat, replaced by mild worry. "Perhaps Albus should…" She patted Clara's shoulder again. "You just wait right here, dear. I think Professor Dumbledore had better explain everything." She bustled purposefully out of the room, leaving Clara staring in befuddlement at the doorway.

"Er…"

The man she had classified as a hallucination the night before was, in fact, named Albus Dumbledore and was, in fact, a wizard, although no relation to Gandalf. It turned out that Mrs. Weasley was also a wizard, as were several thousand other English citizens, including the terrible creature in her office the night before, and that the terrible creature was called Voldemort and intended to take over the entire wizarding world and enslave everybody else. It turned out that a great number of other things Clara had never believed in were true as well, according to Albus Dumbledore.

"Everyone will be wanting to meet you before we go our separate ways, I expect," Dumbledore said after her flabbergasted silence had stretched on into its sixth minute. "Are you up to walking downstairs?"

"You're insane, the lot of you!" Clara snapped. "Magic is real, you're wizards, and there's a Dark Lord out to get all of us—d'you really expect me to believe that nonsense. You've kidnapped me and probably robbed the museum, that's all. Bloody rubbish. You're crazier for thinking I'll believe it than you would be for believing it yourself! You're, you're…" Her words trailed off, and she slumped back against the pillows, utterly drained by her tirade.

"The mind dislikes uncomfortable truths," Dumbledore said gently. "It does its best to ignore or dismiss them—a fact which has kept our kind safely hidden for so long. But you have a very exceptional mind, Dr. Becket, and I'm certain it's up to the task of accepting what you know." She glared up at the old man in stony silence, and he sighed softly. "Do you remember the battle at the museum, Doctor?"

She nodded, unable to deny the veracity of what her own eyes had seen, and shuddered as she remembered the horrible sound of the Dark Lord's voice. "What are you going to do with me, then?"

"We'd like you to help us," he answered, holding out a hand to her. "Voldemort seems all too interested in certain artifacts and texts, and it seems likely that your expertise can help us stay a step ahead of him. I suspect that to be the reason for his, ah, visit to your office, as well."

"It's so lovely to be in demand," she muttered bitterly, but took his outstretched hand and allowed him to help her to her feet and lead her down the stairs. Feeling a little ridiculous in her rumpled clothes, she followed Dumbledore into a room full of people, all of whom turned to look at her as she entered.

"I'm Tonks," said the young pink-haired woman who had seemed so impressed with her the previous night, capturing Clara's hand in a firm handshake. "Don't call me Nymphadora, I hate it. You put up a good fight, Dr. Becket, but I wish you'd be more careful who you hit."

"Er, sorry. You might've let me know whose side you were on."

The man beside Tonks laughed quietly. "Don't mind her, she got off lightly. I'm Remus Lupin." He smiled and shook her hand, a little gleam of mischief in his eyes despite his obvious weariness. The man seemed too young for the amount of gray in his hair, but his eyes and his smile held a warmth and a light that seemed to defy his worn appearance.

"Did you really slug Voldemort in the nose?" A teenager, with hair too bright a shade of coppery-orange to possibly deny relation to Mrs. Weasley, appeared at her elbow, grinning up at her.

"I suppose I did," she replied.

"Cool!"

"Ron, get out of here! Honestly!" Mrs. Weasley bustled over and gave the boy a gentle shove toward the kitchen door, then turned and enveloped Clara in a motherly hug. "We've met, of course, dear. Call me Molly."

A faint flicker of movement caught her eye, and she looked up to see a tall, lean figure step through the doorway, black robes billowing slightly around his thin frame. Eyes as hard and expressionless as two spheres of obsidian met her gaze, and she shivered involuntarily and looked away. He carried himself with a darkly austere dignity that fascinated her almost as much as the unmistakable aura of menace about him terrified her.

The woman she recognized from last night's misadventures as Professor McGonagall stepped forward to make the introduction. "Dr. Becket, this is Professor Severus Snape, our Potions inst—well, Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor now, I suppose. Professor Snape, this is Dr. Becket."

He regarded her with silent hostility, his black eyes appearing even darker against his pale features, then turned and swept off down a passageway in a swirl of black robes. "Pleasant fellow," Clara managed to utter wryly.

"Don't mind him." McGonagall shook her head. "He… has his reasons. And please, call me Minerva."

She stood the busyness and chatter of the kitchen for as long as she could, and then wandered into the sitting room to collapse on a faded couch, sending up a cloud of dust. Leaning back against the cushions, she looked around the sitting room, noting the thick coating of dust on everything and the general state of disrepair; she tried very pointedly to ignore whatever was moving about in the drapes.

"Good afternoon!" a tall, balding man whose remaining hair was as red as Ron's stepped in through the front door and greeted her with a cheery wave. "You must be Dr. Becket! Good to see you're up and about."

"Er, it's good to _be_ up and about, I suppose, thank you," she replied in a tone of polite confusion, shaking the hand he offered.

"I'm Arthur Weasley, Molly's husband," he introduced himself, regarding her intently for a moment. "You're a Muggle!" he said at last, beaming.

"Am I?" She blinked up at him, uncertain whether she had just been insulted.

"Naturally," he responded easily. "Sorry. Muggles are nonwizarding folk."

"I definitely qualify," Clara replied with a chuckle.

"Now, Arthur, let her be, she's had a rough time," Molly admonished as she swept back into the room, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. "She needs rest. I just chased Ron off, for heaven's sake."

"I'm feeling quite a bit better, Molly," Clara offered. She was keenly aware of the strangeness of this new world, and the anthropologist in her longed to grab a notebook and launch into interviews and participant observation. Another corner of her mind simply found the Weasleys' presence comforting, their cheerful energy driving away some of the lingering chill of her encounter with Snape.

"If you're sure, dear." Molly watched her skeptically for a moment, then relented and settled on the couch beside her. "Arthur works at the Ministry; he's quite the Muggle Studies enthusiast." For all the exasperation in the woman's tone, Clara detected a note of pride there as well.

Arthur nodded, settling into an armchair. "I work with Muggle artifacts that have magically, ah, tinkered with. It amazes me the way you lot adapt to the world without any magic to help you along. Technology!"

Clara smiled. "It's sort of reassuring to realize that my world's as strange to you as yours is to me. Makes me a feel a little less like the village idiot."

"After Snape got through with you this morning, I'm not surprised you feel that way." Molly shook her head with a disapproving frown.

"Dreadful man," Arthur concurred. After a moment, he ventured hopefully, "Say, I've been reading quite a bit about your kitchen appliances recently. Have you got a… oh, what was the word… a microwave?"

"Arthur!" Molly sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Of course," Clara answered, momentarily puzzled. "Doesn't nearly ev—oh. I suppose you don't really need them."

"You use electricity to heat the food, don't you?"

Molly appeared to be listening intently despite her protests.

"More or less." Brow furrowed slightly, Clara tried to remember the science of it all. "It's something to do with radiation. If I remember correctly, the radiation causes the atoms in the food to start moving very quickly, which heats it."

"I'd love to get my hands on one."

Clara chuckled quietly. "Professor Dumbledore said there's a chance of returning to my flat and fetching a few things. I could bring the microwave back with me, if you like. I doubt I'll be needing it here."

Arthur brightened; Molly winced slightly. "Would you? That'd be marvelous!"

"Oh, it's all right. It's… been nice to be able to talk about something normal. I feel better, somehow."

"I have a fine collection of Muggle electrical plugs," Arthur offered, quite seriously. "You're welcome to borrow them if you start feeling homesick."

"Arthur!" Molly sighed.

**_AN: While I think the culture shock of a Muggle being told for the first time that magic, wizards, and all the rest exist would probably actually be sufficient to fill several chapters in itself, it's not the focus of the story, so it's getting glossed over a bit._**

**_Next time: Clara gets an unpleasant assignment and Snape is worse than Voldemort_**


	3. Chapter 3: Not Indy Jones

**_Two days after the museum break-in:_**

Blinking drowsily, Clara struggled out of the warm, clinging depths of sleep and yawned. She rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the residual grogginess left by the Dreamless Sleep potion they had given her the night before, and then pulled her hand back a bit, frowning at the streak of red that traced across the knuckles of her right hand, where Voldemort's blood had splattered two nights ago. She remembered how it had burned, like acid, and shuddered slightly. Molly had given her an ointment for it, but it seemed to have little effect. Shrugging it off, she stood, hastily pulling on her clothes, and made her way downstairs.

She found the kitchen door closed, with muffled voices drifting through it, and Molly Weasley spraying the musty drapes in the sitting room with a disconcertingly ordinary spray bottle. "Good morning, dear!" she said brightly. "You can get breakfast as soon as Albus and Snape finish their little chat in the kitchen, I expect. Best not to interrupt them for now."

Clara took an absurd momentary pride in managing not to shudder at the mere mention of the name. The man frightened her in a way none of the others did, even those she had seen in the heat and fury of battle. "Of course. Can I help you with any of this, Molly? I'm feeling rather useless."

"Certainly, dear, just take care that you don't let them bite you. Nasty little things. You spray them with this." Molly handed her a black spray bottle, and Clara turned it toward the light and frowned at the label.

"Doxycide?"

"Certainly," said Molly briskly, and advanced on the drapes.

Clara found herself having a grand old time hunting the doxies, and Molly kept casting sidelong glances at her and shaking her head at the things Muggles found amusing. One of the doxies dodged Clara's spray, and she had just thumped it soundly with the spray bottle when she heard Snape's raised voice from the kitchen.

"Preposterous! I will not!"

"Severus—"

"Should the woman not be Slughorn's responsibility, Albus? I understand that he had agreed to assume the Potions post."

"He has, yes," Dumbledore answered placidly.

"With all due respect, I was unaware that the Defense Against the Dark Arts post entailed teaching Potions to stray Muggles!"

"This concerns the Order, Severus. Horace Slughorn will make a fine Potions instructor—don't give me that look—but I am not yet certain how heavily to rely on him. I need you for this, my old friend."

"Oh, very well. If you insist on wastefully expending time and energy on this Muggle foolishness, then very well, Albus!" Clara and Molly barely had time to dive out of the way and appear busily absorbed in flushing a few stalwart doxies out of the drapes before Snape stormed out of the kitchen, his black cloak snapping briskly behind him, features set in a deepening scowl.

"Dr. Becket," came Dumbledore's voice from the kitchen doorway, "May I see you for a moment?"

Clara had observed within a matter of hours that the kitchen served as the nerve center of the Order's headquarters. Anyone coming and going usually passed through the kitchen, and it was where members tended to congregate, even informally. It was also where Albus Dumbledore had chosen to hold what he called "a rather important chat," and so Clara found herself across the breakfast table from him, regarding him with a wary skepticism.

"How are you adjusting, Dr. Becket?" he asked in a kindly tone. "I realize this must be difficult for you."

"That's putting it bloody lightly, Professor. Nominal good guys or not, the fact remains that you've kidnapped me, and I'm not happy about it."

His expression clouded slightly, and for an unnerving instant she glimpsed the murky depths beneath the kindhearted, slightly whimsical façade. "Had we not taken you into our protection, Dr. Becket, Voldemort would have. I prefer not to think of what might have happened to you then. Please, trust us and believe that this is for your sake as much as ours." He offered her a smile, and some combination of the weary firmness of his tone and the gentle understanding in his eyes made her nod.

"What is it you want with me, Professor?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, now we're getting to the point. Tea?" He gestured to the teapot which had drifted over from the stove to hover patiently at his elbow. Blinking a bit, Clara nodded again, and gratefully took the cup he poured her. "I'm certain you are familiar with the Third Reich's, ah, occult preoccupation during the Second World War, Doctor?"

"Of course." She sipped her tea, lifting a brow questioningly. "Hitler wanted to establish a mythical background for his Aryan race, and he sought a rather eclectic set of occult trappings to do that with. The Indiana Jones films didn't entirely invent that."

"Indiana J—oh, yes. I remember now." Dumbledore chuckled quietly. "I do hope you're a fan, Dr. Becket."

"How's that?" She regarded him skeptically over the rim of her teacup, looking as though she were doing her level best to hide behind it.

"Voldemort is now undertaking a very similar endeavor—warped minds do think alike, regrettably. His particular interest seems to lie in Egypt's magical history."

Clara frowned thoughtfully. "They do have a rather rich background of occult writings, and penchant for supernatural investitures in their artifacts, if you believe in that sort of—well, but I suppose you do, after all."

Dumbledore nodded. "We'll be asking rather a lot of you, I'm afraid. For the present, I'm afraid I have a confession to make." He might have looked sheepish, were it not for the twinkle of mischief in those light blue eyes, and Clara found herself liking him despite herself.

"Dare I ask, Professor?"

"We, ah, borrowed a few items from your office. Egyptian texts which we believe may pertain to certain potions which may be quite helpful to us."

"Hmph, I knew you'd robbed the place!" A smile softened her words.

"I'd like you to work with Professor Snape in translating those and giving us a prototype—I believe you call it experimental archaeology?"

"Er… Professor Snape? But, er… I'd rather, ah… Are you certain that's such a good idea, Professor?"

"Yes, Dr. Becket, I am. Is there a problem?"

The problem, Clara admitted privately to herself, was that Snape simply terrified her, but she could not admit that to Dumbledore. "We, er, rather got off on the wrong foot, I'm afraid."

"I am aware of that, Dr. Becket. I had some difficulty in persuading him as well. Consider this an opportunity to find the right foot, then. He'll be expecting you in the library."

Clara sighed.

She found Severus Snape in the library, a dark silhouette against the reddish glow of the fire in the hearth behind him. He stood rather stiffly at one end of the long mahogany table in the center of the room, one hand resting atop the daunting stack of books before him. Some of them looked suspiciously burned around the edges. Crossing the threshold required an almost herculean act of will; her feet and her gut seemed united in the desire to simply turn and scamper back to join Mrs. Weasley in the kitchen, or help Sirius repairing the creaky floorboards on the second floor, or anything else that did not entail spending time in a room alone with the frightening man at the end of the table. Taking a deep breath and steeling her nerves, Clara stepped uncertainly into the room, fighting a losing battle to appear less timid than she felt. He could, she decided, probably smell fear anyway.

"Professor Snape."

"Miss Becket." Snape inclined his head in a barely perceptible nod. "Professor Dumbledore has, against my recommendation, charged me with this... _assignment_. It will be necessary for me to teach you something of the art of potion-making if you are to be anything but in my way." The clipped formality of his words was only a thin veneer over his distaste. Clara tried to look him defiantly in the eye, but found that he appeared to be haughtily addressing the air above her head. "Although I imagine you will be so regardless of my efforts."

"He believes," continued Snape, "that your lack of any wizarding ability will not impair your studies in the subject." The sneer that lifted one edge of his mouth left no doubt as to own skepticism. "The idea," he went on, "is to get some use out of you, as we are saddled with your presence at any rate."

"Saddled, my arse!" Clara burst out. "You bloody kidnapped me! I never asked you to interfere! You people've derailed my entire career, not to mention what was left of my life, and you have the nerve to stand here talking to me as if I turned up on your doorstep begging you to take me in out of the rain!"

Snape stiffed with sudden rage, his eyes narrowing. "If we are going to attempt this fool's errand, Miss Becket, as it seems we are, you will not interrupt me with any further outbursts. Are we clear?"

Clara regarded him silently, chilled to her very bones by the sheer menace in those black eyes, but too stubborn to intimidate.

"Personally, I suspect that you are wasting your time." He paused, and the gaze that had been directed somewhere over her head and beyond her, as though dismissing her as beneath notice, settled fully upon her, raptor's eyes glaring into her own. "And mine." Clara deliberately squared her shoulders to suppress a shiver and met his gaze, holding it in a silent test of wills that was not – quite – a battle. After a moment that felt to her like a small eternity, Snape nodded curtly and flicked a hand in an almost dimissive gesture at a chair at the far end of the table. "Hmph. Take a seat, Miss Becket. We begin."

Three exhausting, trying, infuriating, and utterly fascinating hours later, Clara emerged from the library shaking her head as if to clear it, her mind still whirling with all she had learned. A few wrong turns down corridors and eventual right turn brought her to the kitchen. where she found Molly keeping an eye on a pot of something-- nothing too foul and wizardy, judging by the appetizing smell drifting across the room-- on the stove, while Ron sat at the table flipping through a magazine. She thought she saw some of the pictures move, and tried not to think about it. Molly turned at the sound of footsteps, features brightening into a smile when she saw Clara. "How did it go, dear?"

Practically collapsing into a chair, she caught a sympathetic glance from Ron across the table and barely suppressed a grin before shifting her gaze to Molly. "Fascinating subject, and there's no denying Snape's brilliant, but he's also the single most disagreeable individual I have _ever_ met."

"Gosh," Ron muttered in awe, "And _she_'s met _Voldemort_."

**_AN: The scar doesn't turn out to be terribly significant, it's just going to be one more thing to annoy Snape with by reminding him of Potter._**

**_Next time: Snape pushes Clara too far. _**


	4. Chapter 4: Professional Courtesy

_**I've decided the Order's headquarters is, in light of Sirius's death, at some other undisclosed location. I was debating keeping Grimmauld place, but have decided not to. Shorter chapter than the last, but dramatic! Next one'll be longer, I promise.**_

_**One Month Later, Mid-July**_

"Sloppy work, Miss Becket," Snape intoned from just over her shoulder, peering down at the soupy emerald-green liquid simmering in the cauldron before her.

She tensed, unable to restrain a startled gasp, but drew some comfort from having not actually jumped out of her chair—this time. The invariable silence of his approach and the sharpness of the sudden voice behind her only contributed to his unsettling effect, which seemed to trigger an instinct older than humanity itself, the reaction to the presence of a predator. Even after weeks of working with the man, he still frightened her, but long exposure to the fear had conditioned her to its presence.

"A properly prepared Forgetfulness potion should be what color?" he drawled, and the voice made every hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Green," she responded, straining to keep her voice neutral.

"Light green," he corrected, a note of triumph in his voice, and Clara scowled inwardly. Snape's pacing carried him back into her field of view, and she slowly let out the breath she had been holding. "And you stirred in which direction?"

"Counter-clockwise, nineteen and a half times."

Clara felt a moment's gratification at the barely discernible look of surprise which flickered across his pale features, quickly replaced by a sneer, which she rated as one of his milder ones, perhaps only a Level Two. Molly had given her quite a stern look when she had caught wind of her passing the rating system along to Ron, but Clara, who had finished her doctorate under a difficult dissertation committee not so long in the past, inclined toward sympathy. "Well. Not a complete dunderhead after all, then? The shock may kill me, Miss Becket."

"_Doctor_ Becket," she corrected tensely. Her fear of him faded only when replaced by her anger at his contempt or by her interest in the work at hand, most often the former.

"Hmph." He waved a hand dismissively, black eyes locking with hers for a moment, and she shivered at the empty coldness of them, reminded of staring into a grave on a dark winter's night. His other hand, the one not dismissing her credentials, her career, her very being, reached into the folds of his cloak. For a surreal instant she thought he might be going for his wand, but instead he produced a battered volume and slid it across the table to her_. Poisons and Potions of the Classical World_.

"And so we proceed from generic potions to more ancient, less travelled paths. Circumstances force us to move far too quickly, but fortunately for us both, I don't need to make a potions-master out of you. You need only understand the rudiments, which it seems even your Muggle mind can grasp. The sooner we get through this, the sooner we may begin our _real_ work, and the sooner I am rid of you. Good day, Miss Becket."

_**One Day Later**_

Rain pelted the windows of the Order's headquarters, the sound muffled a little by the hedge of magical shields around the place. Tonks had explained the security spells to her at some length, clearly trying to reassure her, but she found it difficult to take much comfort in something she could neither see nor sense. For the moment, she felt oddly peaceful, curled up in an armchair by the hearth with _Poisons and Potions of the Classical World_ open in her lap. The subject itself fascinated her almost enough to compensate for dealing with Snape, who alternately terrified and infuriated her.

"Brought you a cup of tea, Dr. Becket." The voice at her side nudged her mind out of the book and back into the world around her, and she had to blink a few times to reacquaint herself with it before lifting her head to see Ron Weasley standing next to her chair with a steaming cup of tea.

"Oh, thank you, Ron." She smiled, gesturing for him to take the chair next to her as she took the cup of tea and sipped slowly. "Hadn't realized I was getting drowsy."

"Reading Potions can do that to you," he said knowingly, and she laughed.

"I've been rather enjoying it, actually. It's a fascinating subject, and it's refreshing to find something I'm not utterly impaired at without magic."

"Maybe it's just Professor Snape. He's--"

Clara grinned devilishly. "Utterly terrifying, mean-tempered, and nasty?"

Laughing and seeming a little surprised by the unexpected sympathy from an adult, Ron nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Couldn't have put it better myself... without getting detention, anyway. Why's Dumbledore got you working with him?"

"From anyone but Dumbledore, I'd guess sheer meanness," she replied, pausing for a sip of her tea, "but really, it makes sense. I'm here to help with some ancient magical documents, and Dumbledore says many of them involve potions. I'll need to understand something of what I'm reading."

"How're you doing with learning it all so fast? I think I'd just die-- Snape'd probably see to that." Ron shuddered, his face the very picture of dread, and Clara stifled a laugh.

"It's no different than anything else I've done," she said with a shrug and a tired half-smile. "A decent archaeologist has to be a bit of a know-it all-- you've got to have a good understanding of geology as well as history, and then usually you've got to teach yourself a crash-course in whatever time period and artifact class you're working with-- not so much now, but before I got really specialized, my work was all over the place. Usually it means being a complete fanatic about whatever obscure subject it is for a few months, but you learn to soak in the information quickly. I'll never be anywhere Professor Snape's level, but I'll be conversant enough. Keeps you on your toes, this business."

"Sounds like Hermione's cup of tea," said Ron wryly.

"I'd like to meet this friend of yours," she said after a moment. "I'd rather like her insight on the transition. It's not just a new culture, it's a whole new reality, and I'm still feeling a little lost."

"If you ask Hermione for insight, be prepared to sit there for _ages_, Doctor."

"I appreciate the warning, Ron. Now, if you'll excuse my rudeness..." With a grin, she gestured to the book on her lap. "...You know how Professor Snape is, and I'm getting the condensed version."

_**Two Weeks Later, Early August**_

Despite the late hour, she was unsurprised to find Snape in the library. On the rare occasions when he spent any time at the Order's headquarters outside formal meetings or reports to Dumbledore, he spent it in the library. Clara had to admit she understood the appeal of the room and the volumes it contained, and often found herself passing her afternoons there when Snape had not claimed it. He seemed to discourage company by his very nature, and Clara still felt unsettled by his presence. They had at last begun work on the handful of documents recovered from the bowels of the British Museum, and Clara had spent the entirety of the last twenty-four hours chain-drinking the strongest tea she could brew in combination with Snape's slightly modified version of Pepperup Potion, while poring over a particularly difficult set of Theban tablets.

He sat at the great mahogany table, head bent over a crumbling scroll, black hair obscuring his features. She hesitated for a moment at the door, overcome by the inexplicable feeling of invading his privacy, catching him off guard somehow.

"Are you going to stand there all day, Miss Becket, or do you have something to say?" He spoke without taking his eyes from the scroll.

"I'd like to talk with you about the tablets from Thebes, Professor Snape. I've looked them over, and I believe they may be significant. The best word-to-word translation I can give you is 'invisibility,' although the actual connotation is much more complex than that and seems to encompass complete undetectability." Even near-exhaustion could not entirely drain the excitement from her voice.

"Very well, Miss Becket." He still did not look up. "Talk, then."

"_Doctor_ Becket." She practically spat the words at him. "Simple professional courtesy. Is that such a thing to ask?"

His gaze lifted slowly and deliberately from the scroll before him, black eyes narrowed to slits. Clara's spine twitched in the beginnings of a shiver at the sheer malice in that darkness. "Do not put on airs, Becket. Your Muggle credentials mean very little in this world, of which you are as ignorant as a child. Remember that, and you might live." He spoke calmly, softly, but the last words carried an edge of menace, and she wondered briefly if he had threatened her or warned her.

Pride got the better of her fear, and despite the cold chills rushing up and down her spine, she clenched her hands into fists to conceal their trembling before his cold disdain and snapped back at him, "My qualifications are _at least_ equal to yours, _Professor_ Snape! And not so irrelevant, either. You can't read hieoglyphs, hieratic, or demotic, or you wouldn't need me in the first place. I know things you don't, things you need, and you're an arrogant bastard! You're the one putting on airs!"

"Presumptuous Muggle," he snarled, stalking toward her, and despite herself she stook a step back. "See?" Snape gestured mockingly at her, his voice dripping scorn. "You are weak, Becket, and this world terrifies you. You try to hide that behind your temper and your wise remarks, but you practically reek of fear--"

"You're one to talk about smells, Snape," she retorted, firmly refusing to give any more ground as he advanced on her.

"Hold your tongue, Becket!" For the first time, he raised his voice, and she was amazed by the sheer force of it. "You are weak, fearful, and impudent! You have earned no respect from me by that, _Miss_ Becket, and you will demand _nothing_!"

Her patience and restraint had felt increasingly stretched over the last several weeks, like a balloon accomodating the air that filled it, but suddenly she felt it snap, releasing her outrage and indignation in a torrent that washed away the terror and left in its wake only a cold serenity. "All right, then. You may translate your own hieroglyphs and demotic, Professor Snape. Good day." She turned with quiet dignity and swept out of the room, leaving a silently fuming Snape behind her.

**_AN: No, Ron doesn't have some sort of weird crush on Clara, it's just a bad case of hero-worship combined with the novelty of having an adult around who treats him like a real person. I suspect the other kids will like her too, when they show up. Don't know where Hermione and Harry are yet. _**

**_Next time: Dumbledore is at a loss, and Clara and the Aurors go to Egypt._**


	5. Chapter 5: Hiatus in Egypt Part 1

_**See, slightly longer chapter, as promised. I'm feeling a little sidetracked, here; this was basically supposed to be a fairly simple Snape/OC story, but the plot seems to have run away with me. Updates may be slow for a while, I'm engaged in frantic costume-making for the book release on Friday night... isn't everyone around here?**_

****

_**The Following Afternoon**_

"Dr. Becket," Dumbledore said quietly, and the fatigue and strain in his voice gave her a momentary pang of guilt, "I understand that Professor Snape can be… difficult. He has much the same to say about you, at great length and with great force." A hint of a smile lit his eyes as he turned to look at her. "To your credit, Dr. Becket, not even Harry Potter has ever infuriated Severus so thoroughly."

"Quite mutual, Professor," Clara answered.

Dumbledore nodded. "So I feared. Doctor, I cannot express to you how vital it is to our efforts that the two of you collaborate civilly. Not to inflate that ego of yours any further, but you are the two finest minds we have for this sort of work. We require his background in the Dark Arts and Potions, we require your knowledge of Egypt, and we require them to function together when needed. Do you understand, Dr. Becket?" His voice remained quiet, his tone polite, but it took on a stern edge, and she glimpsed once again the vague outline of something harder beneath the kindly exterior.

"Yes." She spoke tersely, unable to help that; deservedly or not, he spoke to her as though she were a child, and his patience infuriated her almost more than Snape's berating. "I also understand that I have been kidnapped, held against my will, and belittled constantly by my so-called colleague. I owe you people _nothing_, Professor," she snapped, and hearing an odd echo of Snape's words in her own she shivered and relented slightly. "Really, I want to help, Professor Dumbledore, but I have my limits."

Sighing, Dumbledore turned back toward the fire for a moment. The silence hung between them until at last he returned his gaze to her and nodded. "I shall have a word with Professor Snape. In the meantime, perhaps a hiatus would do us all a bit of good. If you would be so kind, I suspect that Alastor and Tonks may be needing your recommendations on their current work."

_**Two Hours Later **_

"Snape, if this is a trap," Mad-Eye Moody's rumbling voice drifted through the open kitchen doorway, catching Clara's attention where she sat half-dozing on the couch, "I don't care what Dumbledore says about it, I'll rip out your—"

Professor Snape's impassive tone cut him off. "Moody, if I wanted you dead, I would have done it by now." He stalked out of the room, cloak swirling about his form like a living fog. Too late to look away, Clara met his eyes and nearly recoiled from the force of the rage blazing out of them. He scowled darkly at her and turned away, headed for the library.

"Professor—" If he heard, he gave no sign.

Moody stomped out of the kitchen, Tonks at his heels, in time to catch her looking shaken. "Constant vigilance!" he barked at her, thumping the end of his staff on the floor for emphasis.

"I imagine you're right," she replied warily. Moody unnerved her nearly as much as Snape. "What was that all about?"

"Actually, Doc, we wanted a word with you anyway. I guess you have a minute?" Clara nodded, and the two Aurors settled into armchairs on either side of her. Feeling a little cornered, she glanced uneasily from one to the other.

"According to our agents," and Mad-Eye's namesake rolled backwards in its socket, as though glaring through the back of his skull at the doorway Snape had passed through, "Voldemort's 'hired' an archaeologist of his own."

"By agents, you mean Snape?" Clara frowned slightly.

Tonks nodded. "And by hired, we mean Imperius-cursed."

"Perhaps you know him, fellow by the name of Gray?"

Clara thought for a moment, then nodded. "Not personally, but I've read his work. He's published quite a bit on KV-218 in the last few years. Imperius-cursed, what does that mean?"

"Mean's they've made a puppet out of him," Mad-Eye grumbled. "But that's beside the point. Focus, woman! What do you know about a bloke named Djedset?"

"Direct successor to Ankhen-Netjer, actually," Clara answered at once. "One of the Imakhu, a cousin of the Pharoah. He was said to possess power even greater than the Pharoah himself, and history holds him responsible for countless atrocities."

"Makes sense, then," mused the gruff old Auror, nodding thoughtfully. "Snape claims the Death Eaters are looking almost frantically for this Djetset fellow's tomb. Seems Voldemort's convinced the old blighter left a few things lying around, namely one Key of Duat. Our job," and one calloused hand lifted in a gesture that encompassed himself and Tonks, whose hair briefly flickered blue, "Is to beat 'em to it and bring home the Key. Or destroy it, come to that. Know anything about it?" His natural eye fixed her with a gaze of blazing intensity.

"I'm going along!" she blurted, the words escaping almost before she was aware of speaking. "You can't do work like this without an archaeologist, they'll never give you a permit, and you don't know what you're doing anyway!"

"Absolutely not!" Mad-Eye exploded. "I won't have it!"

"Ahmed at the Egyptian Ministry for Magical Affairs has squared everything away with the necessary people," Tonks added quickly, "The permit's not an issue."

"I don't care, you still can't conduct an excavation without—"

"I won't hear of it!" With surprising speed, Moody rose to his feet, towering over her. "This isn't an excavation, lass, it's a military operation. I won't have you getting yourself killed, not on my watch."

"I can hold my own, Moody," Clara snapped. "I was doing just fine against those Death Eaters at the museum, until—"

"Until we waltzed in and saved your Muggle tail? Hmph." Mad-Eye shook his head, the magical blue eye staying eerily fixed on her as he did so. "You've got guts, Doc. Plenty of guts. And for an untrained Muggle, you're not bad in a scrap. But if you think for _one instant_ that you're good enough to go up against Death Eaters in a situation like _that_, you're a fool. And you'll be a dead fool." He glared down at her, and Clara uneasily glanced away, unable to deny the truth of his words. She was tough, prided herself on it, but she could hardly pass for a soldier, especially not against _them_. Remembering, she looked down at the scar across the knuckles of her right hand, remembering the horror of Voldemort's eyes as they bored into hers, the awful burning of his blood, and the terrible pressure on her mind. Lifting her gaze to Moody, she saw him watching her intently, scarred features set in a scowl. "You know it, lass. Don't you?"

"Yeah," she replied, "I suppose I do. The trouble is, you still need me there."

"How do you figure that?"

"Do you have any idea what the Key of Duat _is,_ Moody? Tonks?" Both Aurors scowled and shook their heads. Tonks's hair flared orange, then faded. "I've never heard of the thing either, but "Duat" means the land of the dead, the underworld. That doesn't sound like a simple snatch-and-grab item to me."

Mouth set in a grim line, Moody settled back into his armchair. "I'm listening."

Tonks nodded.

Nine hours later, Clara discovered that she hated Portkey travel even more than she hated commercial flight. She landed on her rump on a polished flagstone floor and found herself looking up at an older version of Ron Weasley, struggling to replace his grin with a concerned expression as he held out a hand to help her up. Moody and Tonks appeared on either side of her, with far more grace, and tucked their respective portkeys, disguised as passports, into the pockets of their robes. "Bill!" Tonks stepped forward to hug him.

"How many Weasleys _are_ there?" Clara whispered to Moody, who only chuckled. "Bill here," began Tonks as the red-haired young man stepped forward to shake Clara's hand, "works for Gringott's. He's volunteered to help us with the search for the tomb."

"The 'blasted dull papyrus-shuffling,' I believe Tonks called it," Bill admitted with a laugh, and Tonk's hair blazed scarlet at him for a moment.

"Do you read any Egyptian?" Clara inquired.

"Hieroglyphs, yes. My hieratic and demotic are a little weak; I break curses for Gringott's, and most of those are written in hieroglyphs, being more formal sorts of things and all." He shrugged.

"Good enough." She grinned. "I'll put you to work, then. Tonks tells me you've arranged for some nearly unprecedented archival access; I'll be hard-put to not let myself get too distracted."

"Hmph," grunted Mad-Eye from behind them. "Just remember, Doc, that the Death Eaters are after the same thing we are, and looking in the same places if we're anywhere close to right. And that means, above all— "

"Constant vigilance!" chimed the other three.

_**Two Weeks Later, Mid-August, Evening**_

"Bloody hell, Doc, I'm going cross-eyed from all this squinting at old scrolls." Clara looked up from the stone tablet on the table before her—the Department of Antiquities in Cairo had proven quite generous once the proper spells were in place—to see the young Metamorphmagus's eyes actually crossed, and sighed.

"You're getting off light, Tonks. All you and Moody have to go through are old expedition notes. At least those are in English, mostly."

"How long's this going to take?"

Clara shrugged. "Could take years. Realistically, Tonks, we may never find it. It may not even be there anymore. That's the nature of the work. I've seen people spend entire careers looking before they find just one site. Given the age and obscurity of the one we're looking for, our odds aren't good." She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her bleary eyes with one hand before stretching. "But that means neither are theirs, I suppose."

She glanced over at the next table, where Mad-Eye Moody hovered ominously over a pile of rather crumpled maps. He held his wand loosely by one end, letting the tip just brush the paper as it dangled from his fingers. "Comperio," he muttered, and Clara watched as the wand seemed to move of its own accord, trailing a thin streamer of reddish mist in its wake. Moody had so far identified only wide areas with his dowsing spell, but even that had served to narrow their search to a handful of several-hundred-square-mile patches from the entirety of Egypt. With this focus for her searching and the aid of a few library spells provided by Bill, Clara had pinpointed a few strong possibilities on the maps, which served to further guide Moody's Comperius searching. Even so, the site eluded them as though deliberately shielded—which, the two Aurors had grudgingly admitted to her, it might actually be if Djedset were the wily sort history recorded him as.

As Clara and Tonks watched, the wand dipped suddenly toward the map, leaving a blazing red X where it touched the paper. It swerved to the other edge of the page, repeating the motion once, twice more, and Moody leapt from his chair and shouted in triumph. "We've got it!" Clara vaulted over a chair to tackle Mad-Eye in an exuberant hug, with Tonks not far behind. "Oh, stop it, you two," he growled, gesturing toward the map. "We're not done yet."

Tonks pointed, tapping the first X with a slender finger. "This is outside the area Doc marked as likely. The other two, though… here," another tap, "and here," a third, "are good possibilities. I think we should check both." She looked to Moody for confirmation.

"Actually," Clara interjected sheepishly, tapping one of the marks, I think this one's a jelly stain. Er…" Moody glowered at her as Tonks doubled over in a fit of laughter, and Clara just shrugged.

"What are we all standing around for, then?" snapped Mad-Eye. "Tonks, saddle up and let's go."

Broomstick travel turned out to be worse than portkeys, unaided by Clara's unreasoning terror of heights. She clung to Tonks for dear life as they raced through the night air above the desert toward a remote stretch of the Blue Nile in Upper Egypt, flanking Moody who flew a few broomlengths ahead of them. "I think I'd rather face Voldemort again!" she shouted, but the wind snatched at her words and flung them away, howling in her ears.

"Hey, Doc, would you look at that view? It's amazing!" Tonks called back to her, exhilaration evident in her voice.

"No!" Clara shrieked in her ear, scrunching her eyes even more tightly closed. "No, I won't!"

She staunchly refused to open her eyes until they landed, the Aurors' nimble touchdowns scarcely raising a cloud of dust from the rocky ground. Dismounting rather stiffly, Mad-Eye drew his wand, the blue eye humming faintly as it revolved in its socket, the dark one narrowed menacingly as the grizzled old veteran glared around at their surroundings. Cliffs rose on two sides of them, ending at the river to their east and tapering off to low hills to their west. Chunks of rock just big enough to qualify as boulders dotted the landscape. Except for the heat, it resembled the surface of the moon. "Remember Tonks, Doc," Mad-Eye cautioned, "Constant vigilance!"

The magical eye flipped in its socket, reacting to the faint scuffing in the rocks behind Moody. He started to turn, raising his wand, but a gush of silver sparks shot from the darkness and enveloped him for a moment, and he crumpled to the dusty ground.

**_AN: Djedset's name comes from "djed," a kind of amulet pertaining vaguely to strength, and "set" or "seth," the Egyptian god of disorder (which basically counted as evil in their mindset). Ankhen-netjer, by contrast, more or less means "Life from the gods." Beyond that, yes, I'm taking truly obscene liberties with actual Egyptology. I of all people should know better, but my plot demands certain sacrifices._**

**_Next time: Constant vigilance!_**


	6. Chapter 6: Hiatus in Egypt Part 2

_**Oh no! Moody! Ridiculously short chapter, but I thought it was a good point for a scene-break. **_

Mad-Eye Moody lay sprawled on the valley floor, his wand rolling away from his limp fingers. For a single heartbeat that seemed to stretch on for ages, no one moved, two pairs of eyes fixed in stunned horror on the Auror's body.

Tonks broke the tableau, lifting her wand and pointing it into the darkness with an uncharacteristically shrill cry of "Stupefy!" In the sudden light of the spell flashing from the tip of her wand, Clara saw a look of terrifying fury on the woman's face, her hair darkened to midnight black. A shout and a thump from somewhere in the darkness attested to Tonks's aim. "Doc! Behind me!" The female Auror grabbed Clara's arm and roughly shoved the startled archaeologist behind herself. "Protego!" A spell bounced harmlessly off the Shield Charm, and Tonks readied her wand.

Unseen arms seized Clara from behind as Tonks fired off another spell, and she reflexively lifted one booted foot, stomping down hard on the toes of her assailant. Her efforts met with a muffled grunt, but the arms around her only tightened, and she felt herself dragged backwards. Struggling frantically, she worked one arm free and slammed her elbow back and up, connecting with the Death Eater's jaw with a satisfying crack. He stumbled backward, cursing, and raised his wand. Clara dove to the side, landing next to the inert form of Mad-Eye as Tonks whirled and shouted "Expelliarmus!" The attacker's wand flew from his hand, and he staggered a bit, thrown off-balance.

"Stupefy!" Tonks flung the spell over her shoulder as she fell back to join the others. The Death Eater who had grabbed Clara dropped to the ground. "I got two of them over there, but I don't know how long they'll be out." She knelt beside Clara, who had placed two fingers to Mad-Eye's throat. Finding a pulse, she let out a shaky sigh of relief, and Tonks grinned and tapped her partner's shoulder with the tip of her wand. "Rennervate!"

Moody's eyes snapped open, the blue prosthesis whirling wildly. He snarled something under his breath, one hand reaching out with surprising speed to shove Clara to the ground. "Get down!" he snapped, his other hand seizing Tonks's arm and shoving her behind him as he drew his wand, firing off a spell into the darkness. The flash of light momentarily illuminated a dark figure falling to slump over a boulder. "Constant vigilance!" Mad-Eye admonished sternly. "How many were there, Tonks?"

"I got three. That makes four." She stood, and Clara followed suit, absently brushing the dust from her knees. "Think there're more?"

"There are _always_ more, girl," Moody growled, clumping unsteadily toward the nearest unconscious figure, eyes scanning the darkness relentlessly. "Incarcerous," he said quietly, and thick ropes wound their way around the still-masked Death-Eater. Leaning down, he snatched the mask away.

"Gibbon," Tonks hissed from behind him. Clara stood beside the young Auror, frowning slightly. Moody nudged the robed body with a boot, then grumbled "Rennervate."

The man named Gibbon stirred slightly, groaned, and then pale green eyes snapped open, full of hatred. "Moody!" he snarled, thrashing against his bonds.

"Lay off it, Gibbon," Mad-Eye said in an eerily calm tone, delivering a sound kick to the Death Eater's ribs. "Make this easy for us both. How many of you are there?"

Teeth bared in a grimace, Gibbon advised Moody to perform an utterly impossible act on himself. Moody responded to the suggestion with another kick.

"How many?!" he roared.

Furious, defiant silence from Gibbon answered him.

"Talk, Gibbon," growled the Auror, leveling his wand at his prisoner's dust-smudged forehead. "I don't have to play fair. You use Cruciatus on prisoners yourself, you know it works."

Clara shot Tonks a questioning look, but Tonks only shook her head, her mouth set in a grim line and her hair shimmering deep violet for a moment. "He's right," the younger Auror said, with only a slight quaver of hesitance in her voice. "Neither of us sees a thing…"

"You wouldn't," Gibbon snarled.

"Yeah, Gibby, he would," Tonks corrected, rising to the occasion now. "He's crazy, or didn't you hear?"

"Done it before," Moody agreed, fixing a stern glare on the prisoner with his one good eye.

"Do it, then," Gibbon taunted. "Mad-Eye Moody, the great Auror… go on!"

His voice a low growl, Moody intoned, "Cruc—"

"Moody," Clara interjected quietly, fumbling around in the pockets of her robes for the carefully padded vial. Afterwards, she never decided whether she was saving the prisoner or Moody. Finding what she sought at last, she placed it in Mad-Eye's calloused hand. "Veritaserum. I haven't been enduring Snape all these weeks for nothing." She suspected Snape would be furious when he found the ingredients missing, but being safely on another continent had its advantages.

"Nicely done, lass. What made you think of bringing this along?"

"Constant vigilance," she quipped, earning a grin from Moody before he turned back to his prisoner.

Tonks held the squirming, cursing Gibbon's mouth open while Mad-Eye dribbled a few drops of the colorless liquid onto the man's tongue. He nearly choked on his efforts to spit it out, but failed and finally swallowed, gasping for breath. "Damn you, Moody!"

"I probably already am," Mad-Eye conceded with a shrug. "How many of your slimy friends are there, Gibbon?"

"Th-three others."

"Who?"

"Avery and the Lestranges."

"Bellatrix…" Clara saw Tonks's eyes narrow, the black of her hair rippling ominously, and the female Auror turned to glance over her shoulder. "Moody, I need to secure the others. I only hit them with Stupefy."

"A moment, girl." Moody shook his head. "But be alert. Constant vigilance!" He turned back to the prisoner, leaving Tonks glaring at the darkness behind them. "Why are you here?"

Gibbon appeared to struggle to hold the words back, but they spurted unbidden from his mouth. "We, we've found the t-tomb of Djedset. The Dark Lord w-wants the… the K-k-key of Duat."

"What does the Key do?"

"U-un-unlocks the R-realm of the… Dead." Beads of sweat stood out on Gibbon's pale forehead, and Clara wondered just how much Veritaserum Moody had given him. Snape had mentioned side effects. She frowned.

"What's he planning, Gibbon?" Moody snarled, his magical eye spinning almost lazily around to peer through the back of his skull as the natural one glowered down at the drugged Death Eater. "Why does— Stupefy!" He spun around as he spoke, catching up with the magical eye, wand lifting to blast an advancing figure backward with his spell.

Tonks raised her own wand and coolly said, "Incarcerous." Rope twined its way around the stupefied Rodolphus Lestrange.

Only Clara heard Gibbon's hoarse answer. "He w-wants to r-rule there and raise… raise his glorious ar-army…"

**_AN: I'm not sure how true-to-canon the idea of Moody actually using Unforgivables is; I'm getting it from my assumption that not-Moody in GF wouldn't have done anything drastically out of character... and I sort of like the notion of him being willing to cross that boundary if the ends justify it-- when you've got people firing killing curses at you, all bets oughta be off. Constant vigilance! We'll be seeing a lot more Clara-Snape interaction in the next couple of chapters._**

**_Next time: Tonks is disappointed and Moody's paranoia is justified._**


	7. Chapter 7: Hiatus in Egypt Part 3

**_And the saga continues... sorry for the gap between updates. Work sucks. I think the ending's a little weak._**

"I expected more gold," Tonks grumbled. Standing in the cramped entryway of the tomb of Djedset with the top of her presently fluorescent orange head just brushing the low ceiling, the young auror surveyed their destination with her hands on her hips ad a definite attitude of anticlimax. The entryway in which they stood led to a small, mostly bare antechamber. Steps led from the antechamber down into the tomb itself. Sand, mingled with the rubble, trash, and general debris of millennia, nearly filled the lower room, burying most of the tomb's contents and obscuring most of the artwork decorating the walls. The visible upper portions of the murals, their figures moving in a stilted, awkward way matched to their stylized postures, presented scenes disturbing enough that only Moody seemed able to look at them without shuddering.

The tip of Tonks's wand flared pale blue for a moment, and she nodded. "It's clear, though. Only had to neutralize a couple of minor jinxes, though there's some residue– think the Death Eaters already took care of the major wards?" She directed the question to Moody, who nodded tersely and shouldered his way past her, poking with his staff at the pile of detritus blocking their way before looking over his shoulder at Clara, eyebrows lifting in a pointed, if unspoken, question.

"It's... it's really an unexcavated tomb!" Clara spoke mostly to herself, her voice nearly trembling with enthusiasm. "This is the find of a lifetime. Especially if... well, if the, ah... wards... were still intact, that might mean it's been relatively undisturbed, although the amount of fill suggests a breach somewhere. The sand and the debris from outside washes in with floods, mostly. You get a fair bit of site contamination that way, but you can usually date the layers, which is often quite a find in itself, but it's going to take months of–"

Moody's impatient glower stopped her short.

"Merlin's boots, woman!" he scoffed. "We don't have months. At best we've got days. More likely hours, possibly minutes. The Death Eaters could be on us at any moment. Constant vigilance!"

Their interrogation of the captured Death Eater had revealed not only the location of the tomb, but the knowledge that Bellatrix Lestrange had apparated back to Voldemort, promising to bring back reinforcements. Clara tried not to wonder what Moody had done with the prisoner.

"I take it the Order isn't planning to sponsor a full-fledged dig in the name of archaeological progress and proper methodology?" she hazarded.

"I'd prefer to just destroy the place and everything in it, but we need to be sure we've rid ourselves of the Key, so we've got to find it first." Moody planted his staff on the ground, leaning on it slightly, and Clara suddenly saw the aching fatigue in his scarred features, the toll the battle and the stunning hex had taken on the aging but still formidable Auror. Even in his present state, he was not a man she would wish to pick a fight with even without the factor of magic; just the same, her heart went out to him, and she resolved privately not to put up too much of a fight about the principles of proper fieldwork. He deserved better.

"How do we go about that?" Tonks glanced from her mentor to their archaeological consultant, head canted slightly to the side in a questioning look. "We can't just accio the Key, can we? If Lestrange was telling the truth, and it might be a Portkey to the Land of the Dead, the last thing we want to do is grab hold of it."

Moody's mouth twitched in what might have been the start of an approving smile, and he reached out and gruffly patted Tonks on the shoulder. "Right, lass. Constant vigilance. You'll make an Auror yet." Tonks beamed, and Moody turned brusque again. "We don't want to miss anything else of interest, either. Doc?"

"I hate to break this to you both," Clara sighed, "but in order to get through all this fill without missing something important, or destroying something we might need, it really will take several weeks with a full excavation crew, and that's if we cut every corner in the book and I never expect to work in this business again, which I do. With just the three of us... we really are looking at months, Moody. Unless you've got some sort of excavation and sorting spell stashed away?"

"Detector charm on the whole pile to flag any magically-tainted artifacts. Tonks, start levitating out bits of this mess; try and drop it somewhere discreet. Doc, you grab anything glowing– that'll be the magical items– or anything else that looks likely. I'll keep the Detector charm up and watch our backs. And remember, constant vigilance!"

Moody flicked his wand toward the wall of sand and rubble before them, his good eye narrowed in concentration while the magical one trained itself firmly on the desert at their backs. Faint hints of blue light seeped out from the depths of the fill, and Clara was suddenly struck by the eeriness of it all, standing in a deserted tomb in the middle of the night while remnants of long-buried Dark magic glowed cold blue in the blackness. Her growing weariness– they had left the library in Cairo shortly after dinnertime, and her watch hovered near midnight now– only added to the sense of surrealism.

At her shoulder, Tonks murmured something that sounded like "mobilicorpus," and the upper layer of the debris and sand lifted into the air, a trail of sand trickling out into the night like a strange wisp of fog with bricks, animal bones, and sundry other items snared in its midst.

The night passed in a blur of almost frenzied work fraught with constant tension. All three of them expected the Death Eaters to return in force at any moment, and even with Mad-Eye standing lookout, Clara caught herself jumping at the faintest rustle of the wind. The upper layers contained mostly sand, and Clara watched it drift by, reaching up to pluck out the few items marked by the faint blue glow of Moody's strenuously maintained Detector Charm and anything else that looked interesting; in a fit of self-indulgence, she chose not to limit her definition of "interesting" solely to "relevant." As the night wore on, her eyes ached with the strain, and she swayed on her feet from drowsiness exacerbated by the tedium, but she held back her protests when she saw the haggard looks of Tonks and Mad-Eye, struggling to keep watch while maintaining their respective spells.

It felt like excavation by assembly line. The archaeologist in her– and that was nearly all there was in her, in truth; after the utter collapse of her personal life all those years ago, she had clung tighter to her work and come to define herself by it– cringed at the lack of documentation, at the lack of attention to context, at the destruction, but she worked doggedly on, knowing that the forms of scholarly fieldwork would matter only in a world in which Voldemort did not lurk in the night with an army of the dead and the gods knew what else. This was not, could not be, an excavation; it was a frantic search for a weapon that must be either used or destroyed.

They went on like that until the sun– Horus in all his fiery glory, Clara thought blearily, almost giddily– had risen fully above the desolate horizon and its heat began to scorch the air of the valley floor, and Mad-Eye called a halt.

"We'll rest during the day," he explained. "It'll waste time we don't have, but better that than risk some stray Muggle or worse seeing our work, and we're all exhausted anyway. If we wear ourselves out, we'll have no strength to fight when the time comes, and it will." He sounded, and they all felt, surprised that the fight had not already come during the interminable night of uneasy waiting. "We'll take turns at watch. The other two'd better sleep. Doc, I know we're asking a bit much of you, but we'll need what you've got already packed up and labelled." Clara nodded. They hadn't recovered much from the upper layers of the tomb, only two or three small items that Moody declared to be of minor significance and a handful of other things she had insisted on recovering less for their mission than for their archaeological value, including the pieces of a shattered clay vessel and half a broken Bedouin amulet that must have washed in fairly recently.

Mad-Eye took the first watch, while Clara and Tonks dozed in the shade of the tomb's entryway. Despite the exhaustion weighing on her and blurring the edges of her thoughts, Clara slept only fitfully, and finally abandoned the pretense altogether. She carefully wrapped and labeled the magical artifacts, then placed them in the crate Tonks had unfolded from her pocket and placed in the entryway; she tried very hard not to think about mundane things like Conservation of Mass while she did this. Finished with her work for the moment, she leaned against the relatively cool stone and set about fitting together the pieces of the little clay jar, ornately carved with a veritable jungle of plants. The work occupied her so thoroughly, and her senses were so dulled by exhaustion, that she never heard the footsteps behind her.

"Reparo," Moody intentioned, and the jar's pieces sealed themselves together in her hands as Clara jumped, almost choking on a hastily-stifled gasp. "Constant vigilance," Moody chided gruffly, and she nodded, looking suitably chagrined, and looked down at the jar in her hands, newly intact.

"Do you have any idea how much I wish I could do that sort of thing?" she inquired, looking up at the Auror.

"You've got your own uses, lass. We wouldn't have known where to look for the tomb without you," Moody pointed out. "It would've taken–"

He fell silent, holding up a hand to forestall her questions, and drew his wand in a motion so fast that Clara never saw his hand drop. "Tonks!" he hissed, and the pink-haired Auror struggled awake, on her feet with her wand at the ready. After a moment, she joined Clara in looking questioningly at Mad-Eye.

"I thought I saw something move, just over that ridge," he explained. The group watched tensely for a few moments, but saw nothing more, and Moody left Clara on lookout while he moved off to strengthen the perimeter wards.

"I'm surprised they haven't tried something by now," Tonks commented when he returned. "How long can it take Bellatrix—damn her—to bring back reinforcements?"

Moody nodded, settling himself on one of the outer steps with a weary sigh. "They're up to something, I'd wager."

"Aren't they always?" Tonks quipped, and Moody nodded.

So it went, the days and nights stretching slowly into a week that slowly stretched into two; they worked by night, and by day they slept and alternated watches while Clara puzzled over the paintings and hieroglyphs on the walls or catalogued what they had found. The tomb paintings never stopped troubling her; like all wizarding paintings, they moved of their own accord, like animations in bas-relief, and acted out the horrible scenes described in the accompanying hieroglyphs. The hieroglyphs, despite their pictographic origins, stayed mercifully still.

Throughout the long days of work and waiting, they expected a Death Eater attack at any moment, but none came, and the tension grew with each passing hour. Several times Mad-Eye thought he heard something just outside their perimeter, and Tonks's morning and evening checks on their wards revealed the presence of an unknown something, but no overt threat showed itself, and the trio worked on in a state of uneasy watchfulness.

At last, toward the close of a night's work, the removal of a pile of sand much like any other revealed an object surrounded by a blue light so brilliantly intense that Clara could not even discern the shape of the item in the center of the glow. "Moody! Tonks!" she called, "I think we've found it!"

She reached out to grab it, but Moody swatted her hand aside. "Don't touch it, Doc! It's a Portkey, remember?" He waved his wand at it, and it settled into the specially charmed box they had prepared for it. "We'll have to des—" A gesture from Tonks cut him off, and he turned and limped with remarkable speed to the entryway.

The first spell, fired in haste by a short Death Eater in the rear of the advancing group, over the startled heads of his comrades, bounced harmlessly off the limestone cliff face, leaving a reddish char on the rock. Shoving Clara behind them, Tonks took up position on one side of the tomb's entrance, using the lip of the doorway as cover, and Mad-Eye did likewise on the opposite side. Peering out around the bulk of Moody's shoulder, Clara counted somewhere between five and a dozen robed, masked figures, their exact number concealed by the shimmering heat and the swirling column of sand that surrounded them as they advanced. They resembled a horrifying mirage, and only the harsh cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange's laugh and the relentless tramp of boots on the rock confirmed their reality, with a sudden sickening plummet of Clara's stomach.

"What took them so long?" Tonks asked Mad-Eye calmly, a note of bemused impatience in her voice. "I figured Bellatrix would be quicker about getting the reinforcements."

Moody shrugged, and Clara noticed that he had returned his wand to his cloak pocket in favor of the ever-present staff, which seemed to function as more than a mere walking stick. Tonks would later explain to her that Mad-Eye preferred the staff, specially crafted by Ollivander himself in gratitude for service during the war, for heavier work– and six-to-one odds counted as heavy work.

"I should've known," he growled, "They were waiting for us to find the Key before they moved in to take it. No sense in not letting us do all the work."

A jet of greenish light pierced the veil of dust and splayed in a shower of sparks against Mad-Eye's quickly cast Shield Charm. As the shield faded, Tonks leveled her wand at the base of the whirlwind that concealed and sheltered the advancing enemy, muttering something Clara could not make out over the sound of footsteps and the roar of the spell-driven wind, and the swirling wall of sand faltered for a moment. The gap was enough; Moody lifted his staff and brought it down again with a resounding thump, and its carved head blazed electric blue for an instant before a wave of light swept the leading edge of the Death Eaters, two men and a woman, off their feet and backwards into their comrades. Those behind them stumbled, but recovered enough to cast, and Clara felt the cold tingle of a killing curse miss her ear by millimeters as the three robed figures in the rear returned fire, using their struggling companions as cover while the remaining six fanned out, three to a side, in the hopes of flanking the cornered defenders.

Retreating a short way into the antechamber and dropping to a crouch, Clara tried to block out the sounds of battle as she glanced around frantically for something she might bring to bear as a weapon. Behind her, she heard Tonks cry out in pain and fury as a hex, dodged too slowly, caught her arm. Clara turned briefly to see the stricken limb hanging limp and boneless at the Auror's side, but she switched wand hands and kept up the fight. Moody's staff flared gold, and the cluster of Death Eaters approaching on the right crumpled, unconscious. She saw snatches of the fight– Mad-Eye's feral grin, barely human on his scarred features; the impassive but menacing whiteness of the Death Eaters' masks advancing implacably; bodies crumpled on the sand; the blazing light of spells and sunlight. Tearing her eyes back to the antechamber, she moved toward the corner she remembered, and shouted in triumph as she found what she sought.

Hurrying back to the entryway, she shoved the object into Moody's free hand, then ducked behind him as he hurled a curse at their attackers. "Moody! Use this!" His natural eye flickered downward at the hieroglyph-inscribed bronze jackal in his hand and then lifted to Clara, brow lifting in an impatiently questioning look while the magical eye remained focused with chilling intensity on the battle.

"Use it for what? Speak up, lass!"

"Read the inscription aloud, then… ah… I don't know, perhaps you should throw it or something, but the inscription says—" Her words were cut off by a spell whizzing above her head, and Moody shoved her further back into the cover of the doorway. "It says something to the effect of that you can use this thing to call on the jackal, the servant of Anubis, to drive intruders away from the tomb, but you've got to read the inscription!"

He turned away for a moment, waving his staff to send a spray of sparks at the nearest Death Eaters, who returned a hail of curses and hexes. The two Aurors ducked behind the doorway, and the spells spattered against the limestone. "I can't read Egyptian, Doc!"

"Then just repeat it after me!"

Tonks stopped attacking and threw all her efforts into maintain a Shield Charm as Clara and Mad-Eye laboriously recited the inscribed words, stumbling here and there. As the little bronze figurine began to tremble in his grasp, Moody hurled it into the midst of the oncoming Death Eaters.

The defenders fell back into the cover of the tomb's entryway, watching as the sleek black shape of a jackal seemed to emerge from the sand. Two more, slightly smaller than the first, leaped out of the hot desert air. A few of the Death Eaters turned away from the tomb to deal with this new threat, but they were too late. The jackals set upon them, black-furred, fanged death unleashed in their midst, and within moments two robed figures lay still and silent on the rocky ground, and the others had fled, either running into the desert in a blind panic or Apparating back the way they had come. The three jackals paused, three sets of golden eyes solemnly regarding the pair of Aurors and the archaeologist huddled in the doorway of the tomb, and then they shimmered, miragelike, and faded into the air.

Moody and Tonks exchanged glances, then Tonks turned and practically tackled Clara in an exuberant hug. "Nice going, Doc!"

Clara smiled faintly. "It's what you hired me for."

There was a brief silence while the three caught their breath and Moody surveyed the scene to be sure the Death Eaters and the jackals had really gone, and at last Clara asked, hesitantly, "What about the Key?"

"I think," Tonks began, "that some doors are best left unopened. Nothing good can come of using that thing."

"My thoughts exactly," Moody said with a curt nod. "I'll see to destroying it while you two pack up. Then we can all go home."

_**AN: That concludes the Egyptian expedition-- this one, anyway. **_

_**Next Time: Clara returns to academia, and Snape holds a grudge.**_


	8. Chapter 8: Professor Becket

**Short chapter this time, but Chapter 9 should be up later today to make up for it!**

**_Three days later._**

_She sat at the Pharoah's left hand, his favored consort and most trusted advisor. Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt, she reclined on a golden throne as ornate as her King's while attendants fanned them and proffered cool wine to drink. At her side, the Pharaoh glanced at her and smiled with fierce pride. Before them, their subjects danced._

_Mummies, hundreds upon hundreds of them, some freshly made with the stink of natron still upon them, some ancient and crumbling, revolved before the incarnation of Horus and his Queen, shambling stiffly to the strains of the Minute Waltz._

_One couple near the raised dais paused for a moment, and a bandaged, dessicated face looked up at her with an almost apologetic expression. "Doctor Becket?"_

_The words sounded strange; she was not a Doctor Becket, she was the Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt, she was the power behind the throne, the ruler of—_wait, why were mummies doing the Minute Waltz?

"Doctor Becket?"

Clara opened her eyes, reaching up a hand to rub at her eyes until the blurriness before her resolved itself into her bedchamber at the Order's headquarters, and the figure standing her doorway became not a waltzing mummy but Ron Weasley, looking both worried and contrite. "Mmmph?" she grunted, fumbling on the bedside table for her glasses. Dimly she remembered arriving back at Headquarters the previous night, just before dawn.

"Sorry, Doctor Becket." He shrugged. "Mum wanted to let you sleep, only Dumbledore wants to see you, and it's nearly noon and he said breakfast would do you good. He's in the kitchen."

Clara sighed, sitting up and wincing a little at the tense ache in her back. Vaguely, she hoped that Moody and Tonks had been allowed more rest, although she suspected neither of them would have granted themselves such a luxury. She was surprised Mad-Eye himself hadn't startled her out of bed with a loud bellow of "Constant vigilance!"

"Naturally," she grumbled. "Thanks, Ron." She swung her feet to the floor and stood. "He can just deal with me in my pajamas, then. I don't bloody care at this point."

Ron grinned, clearly impressed by such defiance, flashed her a quick thumbs-up sign, and ducked back out into the hallway.

She found Dumbledore in the kitchen, looking infuriatingly chipper as he offered her a cup of tea. Slumping into a chair, she took the steaming cup with weary gratitude. "What can I do for you, Professor Dumbledore? We're all a little jet-lagged."

"I realize that, Doctor Becket, and I apologize for waking you so early, but time grows short, as it has such a way of doing, and I have a proposal that might interest you—and, I fear, another favor to ask of you. Muffin?" He offered her the plate.

She took a muffin and regarded it warily, as though expecting it to explode in her hand. Hearing Dumbledore's chuckle, she looked up and narrowed her eyes at him.

"My dear girl, you _have_ been spending too much time in Alastor's company." At the twinkle of mirth in his eyes, she could not help but smile.

"Constant vigilance," she commented, and they both laughed, and some of the tension faded. "What's the proposal, then?" She nibbled at the muffin as she waited for his reply.

"Classes begin at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in two days' time, Doctor Becket. The post of Muggle Studies is unfilled, and members of my staff have suggested to me that you might be the individual best suited to fill it."

"Muggle Studies?" She frowned slightly. It sounded like one those flaky new-age courses in Women's Studies or Minority Studies she had so carefully avoided at University.

"I believe that you would equate it to a cultural anthropology course in the history, customs, and social structure of Muggles. Your students, I expect, will have a particular interest in their use of technology and beliefs regarding magic. That is the usual emphasis, although," he held up a hand, smiling, "you will be free to emphasize whichever facets you prefer."

She considered this for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on her muffin. Swirling her teacup idly, she watched the dark liquid swirling against the white porcelain, then lifted it to take a slow sip, regarding Dumbledore almost appraisingly. "I would have access to the library?"

"Naturally."

"And I wouldn't have to work with Snape?"

Dumbledore sighed. "We would need your joint efforts to continue, Doctor Becket. He has done some work on that Theban scroll you found, and has confirmed your opinion regarding what he has chosen to call a Concealment Potion, but your insight will be invaluable." At her sputtered protest, he raised a hand to silence her. "But…" The old wizard grinned, his expression suddenly one of pure mischief, "He would have to address you as _Professor_ Becket."

Clara grinned. "I'll do it."

**_AN: Sorry for the slow updates these days._**

**_Next time: School begins and peace offerings are made._**


	9. Chapter 9: Start of Term

_**I know, I know, it took me long enough. Here's a nice long chapter to make up for the wait and keep you all from finding out where I live and slaughtering me in my sleep.**_

****

Once you got past the novelty of a talking hat, the Sorting Ceremony was at least as tedious as every other academic convocation Clara had ever been forced to endure in her career. Judging from the fidgeting of the students already assembled in the Great Hall and the fixed nature of the faculty's attentive smiles-- this close, she could see the slightly glazed look in their collective eyes-- the other occupants of the Hall felt much the same way. She caught a sympathic smile from Minerva before returning her attention to trying not to be too obvious about watching the incredible display of illusory magic that was the Great Hall's ceiling. At present it had taken on the appearance of the Arctic sky, and the shimmering ribbon of the Aurora Borealis rippled and blazed across the star-studded darkness. She watched in awe, and was so enraptured by the display that she nearly fell out of her chair when Dumbledore placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Professor Becket? A few words?" the bearded face beaming down at her appeared both amused and concerned. Struggling to remember the last few minutes, she realized that the Headmaster must have just introduced her to the school at large, and that she was looking like a scatterbrained dunderhead. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a wink from Minvera, a broad grin of encouragement from Hagrid, and a nasty smirk from Snape.

"Thank you, Headmaster. It is an honor and, I confess, a surprise to be here. I'll be learning about your world at the same time as I'm teaching you about mine, and I suspect that I'll be heartily glad none of you can deduct points from me!" That earned her a scattering of laughter, and scanning the audience, she was heartened by a wave from Ron, echoed by two companions who could only be the infamous Hermione and Harry.

Following the end of the Welcome Feast, a thoroughly stuffed Clara waddled upstairs to her chambers to finish unpacking, then proceeded toward Dumbledore's office for the meeting he had requested before the Feast. Half an hour, three wrong turns, two maliciously swerving staircases and an animated armor-suit escort later, she found herself standing at the foot of the staircase leading to the Headmaster's office, engaged in a staring contest with the gargoyle. "The password? Try 'I'm a professor and the Headmaster asked to see me and I'm late, so let me in or I'll kick you,' she snapped after several wrong tries, and the gargoyle's eyes narrowed menacingly.

"How many times must I have this discussion with you both?" Dumbledore's voice drifted through the closed entryway, hollow and thin with distance and muffling. "We need your collaboration-- you have the Potions background, she has the Egyptological background, and you are both two of the brightest researchers we have. I think--"

"Headmaster, I'm not questioning her intelligence, or her qualifications." Even muffled by the staircase and the walls, Snape's deep voice registered clearly, and the shiver it sent down her spine momentarily distracted her from its content. Once she had parsed the statement, the gargoyle snickered at her stunned expression. Snape, admitting her qualifications? Her intelligence, no less? "But however knowledgeable in her own field, however quick a study in Potions, the woman is arrogant, temperamental, rash, and entirely out of her depth in this world. She will not last, and she will impede my work!"

Dumbledore responded to the outburst with a chuckle. "Now, Severus. She says much the same thing about you. You _are_ both arrogant, temperamental, and impatient-- but you are also both quite capable and quite intelligent, and I suspect that you merely both demand respect for those things, and not unreasonably so. You don't have to like each other, but I recommend that you learn to respect each other's abilities and function in a professional capacity."

"Headmaster, I--" Snape began, but Dumbledore cut him off.

"Remember your vow, Severus," he said sternly.

Snape grumbled something she couldn't hear, and a moment later the door slid open, and Snape emerged at a brisk trot. She caught a glimpse of pale features glaring at her before he whirled and swept off down the corridor in the opposite direction without a word. Sighing, she ascended the staircase. "You wanted to see me, Headmaster?"

"Ah, yes, Professor Becket. How are you settling in?"

"Just fine, thank you. I finished my lesson plans last night, and I'm quite looking forward to teaching." She offered a genuine smile-- that portion of her assignment, at least, she truly would enjoy.

"I am pleased to hear it, Professor. I take it that you heard my exchange with Severus?" She looked startled, and his eyes twinkled at her merrily. "Oh, yes, that was intentional. You couldn't have heard through the walls and down the staircase even without the silencing charms, but I did a little tweaking..." He gestured at the air around him with one hand, smiling. "It is often best not to have to repeat oneself, don't you suppose?"

Clara nodded, unsure what else to say. "Yes, and I suppose you're right about the collaboration. There's no denying that Sn-- Professor Snape, sorry-- is bloody brilliant, but... to be honest, Headmaster, the man terrifies me, and the only time he doesn't is when he's pissing me off."

To her great surprise, Dumbledore laughed, and quite placidly offered her a lemon drop before speaking. "I suspect, Professor Becket, that he angers you _because_ he frightens you. You are unaccustomed to being frightened of much, and the fact that Professor Snape can manage it touches on an insecurity which manifests itself as anger."

Clara nodded again, feeling a little like an automaton-- she suspected strongly that people often felt that way when dealing too closely with Albus Dumbledore. "When do we begin work, then?"

Dumbledore twinkled a smile at her. "Severus requested, in that insistent way he has, that you join him in the Library at your earliest convenience."

Forty-five minutes and a run-in with Peeves later, Clara slipped into the Library, only to be immediately hissed at by a portrait hanging near the door. "Quiet! And it's after hours besides, I'll call Filch!"

"Hush, it's all right, I'm a professor," Clara grumbled, earning another hiss of "Quiet, I said!" Shrugging, she shook her head and ventured further into the darkened library. "Professor Snape?" She caught sight of a flicker of candlelight in the Restricted section, and moved through the stacks toward the glow. At last she rounded a corner to see a black-clad figure hunched intently over a pair of clay tablets and a stack of books. Even in relative repose, Snape reminded her of a predator waiting to pounce. He straightened slightly and reached for a book, and the fluidity of the movement was almost feline, reminding Clara of a panther. She shivered.

"Professor Snape."

With obvious deliberation, his head lifted, black eyes fixing her with a look of cold contempt. "Ah, _Professor_ Becket," he drawled in a voice dripping with disdain. "I see that you mistakenly believe your new title to confer exemption from the usual rules regarding punctuality."

"Well, _Professor_ Snape, it seems that yours renders you exempt from basic good manners," she snapped back reflexively at him, a little surprised by her own boldness, "and I don't believe in double-standards."

His eyes narrowed, and Clara recoiled a step or two from the sheer force of the anger in that glare. She told herself that she was haughtily standing her ground by not looking away from that dark, furious gaze, but in reality she found herself unable to tear her eyes away. Those usually cold, impassive eyes suddenly resembled the turbulent blackness of a storm cloud, crackling with energy and simmering with barely-restrained power. He terrified her in that moment as much as he ever had, for she was certain he could kill her with a word, a gesture, or drive her mad with a mere thought and the power of his eyes, but the power, depth, and energy she saw there drew her inexorably.

After a long moment, she saw Snape's jaw twitch slightly, and one hand lifted to gesture imperiously at a chair. "Sit down, Professor Becket. We have work to do," he barked.

She sat, arranging her notes on the table before her. "We do indeed." Snape paced behind her, and she felt every muscle in her body tense with the instinctive sense of a dangerous creature stalking just behind her. _Don't let him get the upper hand_, she reminded herself sternly of McGonagall's earlier words, _because once he has it, he keeps it, and Merlin help you then. Stand up to him, but tactfully, _and she stood, turning to face him.

"I told you to sit," he snarled at her.

"And I'm a professor, Professor, not a student in detention," she retorted, keeping her voice as level as she could manage. "Let's conduct ourselves like civilized colleagues; this will go faster and we'll be rid of each other that much sooner. I suspect you look forward to that as much as I do."

"Indeed," Snape replied smoothly, and took a seat across from her. "In the interest of... civility... then. A summary of your progress thus far, Professor Becket?"

Resuming her seat, she gestured at her notes. "I've continued to analyze those Theban tablets, and I've identified most of the ingredients listed and converted the measurements to contemporary equivalents, but--"

"I am quite capable of making elementary measurement conversations given a hieroglyphic lexicon, Professor Becket." Snape waved a hand dismissively.

Clara bit down on her tongue hard enough to draw blood, remembering his words to Dumbledore. _Professional respect_, she reminded herself. "I didn't doubt that, Professor Snape, but I supposed your efforts would be focused in other directions," she ventured in a carefully tactful voice. "Have you made any progress with the ingredients?"

"Some of them are easily recognizeable; the herbal you owled from Cairo contained more than a few. Some of the references, however, appear indecipherable. It seems you have led us on a wild goose chase, Miss-- _Professor_." A slight sneer accompanied the last word.

"I very much doubt that," Clara snapped, then caught herself and sighed. "The texts predate the Old Kingdom, Professor Snape-- the idiom used and the writing itself is likely to be quite different from the Middle Kingdom texts I sent you. Hieroglyphics as a writing system hadn't entirely coalesced into a single unified language this early on; local dialects could vary pretty substantially, never mind the difference in time." She paused, and Snape inclined his head in a barely perceptible nod.

"Go on, Professor Becket." He waved a hand impatiently, but the impatience was interested rather than dismissive.

"Some of the names and descriptions are fairly straightfoward, and I sent that Middle Kingdom herbal in the hope that you'd sort those out, at least. Others are harder to translate, because the text might give only vague descriptions, and some of them were only named because of the symbols used to _write_ the word, not the meaning of the word itself, while still others we'll just have to puzzle out based on their use."

"And?" Snape leaned back in his chair, regarding her with cool detachment.

"I believe I've identified all but three."

Black eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he reached out a hand for her notes. "Show me." She tensed slightly as he reached past her, and a cold jet of fear raced up her spine. His gaze flickered briefly to her, one eyebrow quirking upward slightly, and then he gestured to her notes.

She launched into an explanation of her translation, enthusiasm for her work overriding her anxiety as she went and almost shielding her from the unnerving intensity of Snape's sudden attention.

"Hmm... infusion of boiled esparto... how did you arrive at this conclusion, Professor Becket?"

"The symbol, there? Those pointy green reedy things? Looks an awful lot like esparto, there's a picture in--"

"Yes, yes, I gather as much. Spare me the inevitable recitation of your bibliography, if you please." He scowled slightly, and Clara nodded. "You are wrong," he said offhandedly.

"Beg pardon?"

"Think, woman!" he snapped, jabbing one slender finger at the tablet. "This is an invisibility potion. Espardo interacts with powdered ostrich eggshell to produce what effect, Miss Becket?"

"_Professor_ Becket." She folded her arms over her chest, glaring at him over the rim of her glasses. She wasn't as good at that particular expression as Minerva, but she was making a run for the title of amateur champion.

"Hmmph. Insolent Muggle wen-- well, get on with it." The man seemed to use scowls in place of periods.

"I'd have to look it up," Clara conceded with a shrug, and her shoulders slumped slightly at the look of triumph on Snape's impassive features.

"See that you do. The rest of your translations at least appear plausible. I shall see if I can produce anything useful from this."

She grinned despite herself. Grudging approval from Snape was akin to a Nobel prize from any other source. A trifle hesitantly, she pointed to a question mark on her translation list. "This is the one I'm not sure about. Powdered heart of something, but I have no idea what creature the text is referring to." Turning to the tablet, she pointed out the appropriate set of characters. "It's this symbol here."

The dark figure of the Potions Master leaned over her shoulder for a moment. "Muggle!" Snape snapped derisively. "I suggest, Professor Becket, that you refer to any first-year Care of Magical Creatures textbook. He stood, crossing the room in a few quick, graceful strides, cloak billowing behind him. Watching him move, Clara was struck by the fluidity and speed of his movements. Mentally, she compared him to a bat and shook her head-- a panther would be far more accurate.

Sweeping back across the room, he thrust a book at her. "Page two hundred and ninety-seven, Professor Becket."

Taking the book, she flipped through the musty pages, pausing occasionally to watch unimaginable creatures snarling at her from within the inked confines of their illustrations, until Snape's impatient "Ahem! Professor!" startled her back to page-turning. Reaching two hundred and ninety-seven at last, she read the subject heading. "The Sphinx?"

**_AN: No, I didn't make up esparto-- I got from an Encylopedia Britannica article on Egyptian flora and fauna, which I suspect I'll be leaning on heavily for potions ingredients. The bit about the evolution of hieroglyphics is also more or less true._**

**_Next time: Crabbe and Goyle get more than they bargain for._**


End file.
